


What We Pretend to Be

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Cannibalism, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, Inline with canon, M/M, Manipulation, Mildly Dubious Consent, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Dynamics, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-10-29 23:42:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20804930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Will knew what he had to do from the start; after months in a cage with no company but the space of his own head and the self-made reality that is the only thing he can truly trust in anymore, he was ready for what seducing Hannibal Lecter would cost." Will knows what he needs, and Hannibal knows what it will cost him.





	1. Inspire

It’s so much easier to surrender than it should be.

Will had braced himself for this. He knew what he had to do from the start; after months in a cage with no company but the space of his own head and the self-made reality that is the only thing he can truly trust in anymore, he was ready for what seducing Hannibal Lecter would cost. He knows what Hannibal did to him, knows that his experience was an act of almost-mercy compared to the things Hannibal has done to other people, to other victims; and, of course, he is himself, and that gives him a unique insight. Will took the hours of silent isolation in his cell, fixed himself in place with his hands on his knees and his head facing straight forward, and when he shut his eyes it was Hannibal Lecter’s table at which he saw himself.

Will has done it all. In the theatre of his mind he has stepped inside Hannibal’s perfectly tailored suits, has held the handle of every knife, has tasted the tang of blood in the air. He felt Beverly Katz beneath his hands, her skin stripped of living warmth and frozen to marble hardness; he eviscerated a man’s body to fill it with organs made from nature instead of flesh. He has tasted meat, blood, bone, has gorged himself to satiation on the bodies of acquaintances, friends, lovers; by the time he stepped out of the cage of his cell, Will was sure there was nothing Hannibal could offer him that he hadn’t already imagined, hadn’t already tasted, chewed, swallowed, digested down to the last fragment of agonized horror.

He was wrong. Hannibal had accepted him into his home, had stood aside from the doorway with a curve of his lips and a glint in the endless darkness of his eyes that shivered vibration down the whole of Will’s spine, and in the sound of the door clicking shut behind him Will heard the opening note of a match set to run far deeper than any of the ink-black waters he had already swum. Will stood in Hannibal’s kitchen, sat at his table, ate his food; knowing, this time, with perfect certainty, what was sliding past his lips to be broken down and remade into his own desperate existence. But it’s not just food that Hannibal offers, not only murder remade into something delicate and sweet and agonizingly delicious; and in the first moment of Hannibal’s fingers brushing against the back of his wrist Will sees a glimpse of what he has stumbled into, of just how intimate his game will have to become.

Will would like to tell himself he doesn’t enjoy it. It would be easier in many ways, perhaps in the most important of them, to believe himself to be only acting, to hide the fragile interiority of his psyche behind the shell of pretense, at least for his own self-preservation. But Hannibal’s eyes allow no space for retreat, the soft ripple of his voice is trained to shatter any self-defensive lies one may construct. Will knew that going into this, knew from the moment he lifted his fork to his lips that it is only in  _ being _ what he acts that Hannibal will believe. He braced himself against it, set himself to flay apart his own moral judgment in pursuit of the greater good of inevitable justice; and it is then that Hannibal moves sideways, to reach past the barrier with a touch, a breath, a murmur so soft that Will finds himself thrumming in response almost before the texture of Hannibal’s skin has ghosted across his own.

There are no lines between them. It was Will who stepped over the first of them, deliberately, in crossing the threshold of Hannibal’s home; Hannibal lays out the next on beautiful plates to be broken open by shining cutlery. The invasion begins with the taste of fat and the rich heat of wine sliding down Will’s throat; when Hannibal steps around the table to breathe against the hair curling at the back of Will’s ear it is as much the subsequent course as it is anything else. Will tastes Hannibal’s meal, sates himself with the delicate destruction that Hannibal serves to such pristine beauty, and when he has gorged himself he tips his head back, and lets his eyes shut, and offers himself up for Hannibal in turn.

Hannibal is careful with him. There is astonishing care in the slide of his hands, in the work of his fingers slipping Will’s clothes free of his body; as if he is relishing every pull of friction, breathing in the heat of skin like the aroma of the expensive wine resting in the decanter still set out with the remnants of their meal. Will can feel the appreciation in the grasp Hannibal makes at the back of his neck, can hear reverence in the breath Hannibal takes against the skin pulled taut over his collarbones. Under Hannibal’s hands Will is shaped into a work of art, a masterpiece drawn and sculpted and formed by the cool consideration of those dark eyes against him, and Will shuts his eyes, and drops his head back into the cup of Hannibal’s palm, and lets himself be framed.

There is no haste, between them. Will has given himself over to this, has collected all he has in him to deliver into Hannibal’s hands in the hopes of knocking some fragment of truth free from the other’s perfect control; and Hannibal has been waiting for too long to hurry. Will hadn’t realized how deep Hannibal’s desire ran, before, had hardly guessed at the truth of it and failed to calculate it into his intentions; but he feels it, now, resonating between them as if Hannibal’s want is plucking at the chord of Will’s well-tuned psyche to let the other speak with Hannibal’s voice. Hannibal’s fingers map the line of Will’s spine and Will’s breath catches in his chest; Hannibal’s lips touch Will’s thighs and Will’s throat constricts on an answering moan. Hannibal forms the shape into which Will bleeds color, and when the shadow of the other’s form rises up over him Will feels the dark of it as heat cresting over his skin.

“Will,” Hannibal says, tasting the shape of Will’s name, fitting the length and width of it against his tongue, and Will’s mouth goes hot with saliva to speak to the thirst thus engendered in him. Hannibal comes forward, dark wings sweeping to close the weight of the ocean over Will’s head, and Will parts his lips and lets Hannibal taste him, accepting the force of the other’s tongue against his own with a sensation that he cannot tell himself is anything but relief. There are details of the contact, points of friction distant and strange -- the traction of stubble against Will’s jaw, the startling soft of Hannibal’s lips pressing to his own, the thumb bracing vise-certain at the soft point just before his ear -- but Will’s memory forgets those as quickly as they are felt, melting them away into the greater tidal force of Hannibal’s mouth closing over his own. He is held, taken, used; and under the demand of Hannibal’s lips, Will strips himself open and hands himself over to the other’s keeping.

There is no line. Will feels there ought to be, perhaps, some sense of greater surrender as Hannibal’s hand slides between his legs, as Hannibal’s touch eases into the heat held close within Will’s body; but what more can there be to offer, when Will has taken in what Hannibal served him, when Hannibal’s touch has known the inner working of the psyche that is so much more Will’s self than his human flesh can ever contain? There is no invasion here, no sense of greater intimacy; this is just an expression of what already exists, just Hannibal stripping Will open to find his own fingerprints already there waiting for him. And there is pleasure to it, as there is pleasure to the taste of the food however horrifying the ingredients, a hedonistic release that comes with stepping away from the boundaries of morals, expectations, limits. Will feels Hannibal’s fingers inside him, working within the space of his body, forming him into something new and different than what he once was, and when Hannibal’s touch drags Will’s spine arches, his lips part against the urge of Hannibal’s mouth to spill the relief of a moan for Hannibal to sip from his tongue directly. Hannibal holds Will still, fixing him under the grip of one hand to steady him for the work of the other, and Will unfolds for him, letting himself give way until he is nothing but a vibration in the flute of his throat, present as no more than a thrumming heat reaching out to bleed into his veins and tremble through his fingers.

It feels like a fever. Will doesn’t remember his seizures -- that’s the nature of the experience, he supposes, a last-ditch self-defensive removal from a loss of control as complete as what must come with dying -- but there is no dissociation here, no distance from the body in which Hannibal has locked and bound him. When Will’s thighs shudder he feels the pleasure of it against the back of his skull; when Hannibal’s hands slide over him his vision sticks itself to the details at the ceiling, clinging until the smooth surface seems as much a cause of Will’s arousal as the friction itself. Hannibal moves over Will, maneuvering their bodies and limbs together as dexterously as he handles the arrangement of a completed meal on the stark white of a plate, and Will spreads his legs, and reaches up with his hands, and welcomes Hannibal over and into him, as he swore to himself he would, as the darkest part of him craves to do. There is a reason for this, a purpose to this surrender, but when Hannibal thrusts forward to join them together Will can’t tell himself there is anything in this but self-satisfaction, can’t pretend his reasons are anything but a shell cracking over the aching, desperate need in him. He wants justice, believes in morality, cares about the right; but he  _ needs _ Hannibal, craves the darkness like his body craves air, with a desire so deep and instinctual it has become a necessity.

Will doesn’t fight it. He told himself he wouldn’t, knew that to make the attempt would be his undoing; and if he doesn’t want to, now, in this moment, that will be his own darkness to bear, his own price to pay for the mistakes he has made. Will is a tool, a means to an end that can only justify itself in the final act; and then Hannibal moves in him, with him, through him, and Will is an instrument, a string pulled taut only so that the music he makes may be the more beautiful. His fingers clutch, a fist at Hannibal’s hair and fingernails digging into the meat of the other’s shoulder, and Hannibal’s mouth slants itself into a smile as blood pools under Will’s nails and drips sticky over his palm. Hannibal’s thumb bruises his hold against Will’s body, digging itself to fit into the gap between the lowest ribs of Will’s chest, and Will strains against it, under it, into it, his body flexing to press into Hannibal’s hold. They are together, Hannibal’s blood under Will’s nails and Will’s breathing hot at Hannibal’s lips, and when Will’s legs angle to tighten around Hannibal’s hips there is no thought of capture in his mind, no intention to secure the justice in whose name he blasphemes his reasons. He seeks only to draw them closer, to spill one cup over into another, to find his own pleasure from the straining tension of Hannibal’s, and when Hannibal curves down to meet him there is the intuitive beauty of inspiration in the shape and action of his form.

There are no boundaries. Air, body, form and function; they entangle, pull apart only to feel the ache of separation before coming back together, to wind the reaching vines of intimacy deeper around them both. He loses himself, his name, his identity; it is on his lips, it is in his throat, and he does not know if the taste is a memory or a premonition, doesn’t know whose heat it is thrumming in his chest and trembling in the thighs around hips, in the shoulders flexing on stability. He is nothing, he is everything, they are darkness and shadow and the reaching peace of night, and when he comes the light behind his eyes is endless dark, reaching to claim and cradle him as close as the hand winding into his hair, the arm steadying around his shoulders. His lashes dip, his shoulders quake, his breath spills from him as if forced by the grip of a hand around his heart, and in the dark space behind his eyes when even his thoughts go silent, the relief of it is like toppling over an edge and under the surface of an endless, perfect ocean.

He doesn’t know which of them is the musician and which the instrument, and the secret truth laid briefly, perfectly bare in him is just this: the music steals his breath away all the same. It is only for a moment, only a breath before self-preservation rushes forward with the disguise of justice, of righteousness, of his inevitable, necessary end; but he knows the truth, has felt the touch of night-cold certainty on him, and when the breath against his mouth closes in to claim him, there is no one but himself to know the way he reaches up to meet it in kind.


	2. Verisimilitude

Will is a liar.

Hannibal can sense it in him, can taste it in the air at his lips, can smell it clinging to the dark curls of Will’s hair and lingering in the folds of his jackets and rumpled shirts. Will has spent long years lying, to the world, to others, to himself; it is the shape of his lies that have formed such a cage around him, the restraint given physical form during his brief stay in Chilton’s penitentiary. But he carried his prison with him long before that, a straitjacket for his mind formed of outdated beliefs, restrictive morals, a judgment rendered on himself with every action he took to help the people he believed he ought to care for more than their killers. Will was crippled by his lies, hamstrung into such vulnerability it started Hannibal’s mouth watering with the foretaste of victory, with the same hunger he is sure a lion must feel at seeing a limping gazelle. He was fragile, delicate and bleeding and so weak with pain he was ready to welcome the cool rationality of the end sweeping in over him; and Hannibal looked, and saw, and waited.

Hannibal is good at patience. He appreciates consumption, appreciates the eclipsing wave of his existence bearing down to overcome another’s; but he appreciates the art of savouring something, too, and he’s never known someone as ripe with potential as Will Graham. He watched Will crumble, giving way beneath the weight of his own expectations for himself, and it was in the cracks that formed under the increasing pressure that Hannibal saw something even more alluring than what Will was: what Will could be.

He has changed a great deal in the last months, and also not at all. Hannibal sees the concern in Jack Crawford’s eyes, the calculation and weighing and measuring that is providing results the other man hardly believes, even with his own intuition to guide him. But their conversations are the same now as they ever were, with the same dark undercurrents and heady overtones wafting through them, except that now Will has a palate for them too. The experience is something shared between them, measured out from Hannibal’s hand to Will’s dark, endlessly waiting eyes, and in the end Hannibal is an artist more than he is anything else, and even the most dedicated artist needs an audience to appreciate his work.

Will lies to others, now. Hannibal watches him at crime scenes, watches his jaw flex with strain as he grits out the words that are more truth, now, than he has ever let himself express before, the blow of them softened by repetition that misleads eyes that might otherwise see more clearly what he is becoming, what he has always been, if he had only been able to let himself truly feel it. There are still moments when he lies to himself; when Hannibal’s sleeve brushes his and Will’s shoulders tense, when his gaze pulls away instead of lingering and savouring Hannibal’s expression as much as Hannibal is savouring his. But when Will is looking into Hannibal’s eyes, when his expression is laid open for the weight of the other’s gaze, there is no lie in the force of his attention, no matter what he may think in himself. Hannibal can see straight through him, like gazing into a river running clear and smooth without so much as a ripple to disturb its surface, and Hannibal lets his lips curve towards a smile as sincere as the one Will is fighting back, and he admires their creation.

They have no audience but each other for this. Hannibal has been crafting his art for Will’s eyes from the start, has been playing to a theater formed exclusively in the clear attention in the other’s gaze, but the performance is a dialogue now that Will is on the stage with him. They have spoken to each other in the spill of blood, in the taste of meat, with shuttered glances and hissed threats and fought-back smiles and now, like this, in the privacy of Hannibal’s home, they don’t even need the intermediary of air to bear the force of their connection one to the other.

Will shudders when Hannibal touches him. That hasn’t changed, hasn’t altered, no matter what else may have shifted in the remaking he has undergone; but what used to be fear is pleasure, now, Hannibal can see it in the lift of Will’s chin to bare the line of his throat, can feel it in the heat flushing to a fever beneath his touch. Will’s head turns to the side, his lashes dip to hide the haze of arousal cast over his gaze, but stripped free from the barrier of his clothes there is no room left for the deception of disinterest. He’s responsive to Hannibal’s hands, breathless and heat-taut even before Hannibal has bothered to shed his own trappings of decorum to offer Will the hedonistic possibilities of bare skin and desperate breath. It is a victory just to sit across the table from Will, to watch his lips part over what delicacies Hannibal crafts for him; but what Hannibal claims for his own he takes entirely, body and mind and soul together, and he has never wanted to possess anything as much as he wants to possess Will Graham.

“Will,” he says, giving voice to the name with the forward strain of his body, letting it fall with an ache of anticipation in his throat to deliberately lay bare the pleasure building against his spine as he moves them closer together. Will’s forehead creases, his jaw tightens, but when his voice spills free from his lips it comes with a gasp of heat, a match for the clutch of his fingers flexing hard against the span of Hannibal’s shoulders angling them back over the edge of the desk, where Hannibal pressed them after freeing them both from the constraints of tailored vests and heavy jeans alike. Hannibal breathes an exhale from the strain of Will’s throat, tastes the humid-salt of the air between them on his tongue as he braces Will steady for the upward flex of his hips against the surrender of Will’s spread legs. “Am I hurting you?”

Will huffs a laugh. The sound is strained in his throat and he doesn’t open his eyes, doesn’t lift his lashes to raise his gaze from where it is clinging to Hannibal’s shoulder, as if Hannibal needs to see his face to read every intimate desire from the thrum of Will’s body against his. “Do you care?” His voice is raw, drawn taut over the pressure in his chest. Hannibal feels Will’s hands at his skin shift, feels the edges of fingernails dragging for purchase against the angle of his back and the soft of his hair.

Hannibal breathes out, leans in, sketches the illusion of a kiss to the tendon cording at the side of Will’s neck. “Of course I do.”

Will’s mouth tightens on a humorless smile. When he huffs a laugh Hannibal feels the heat of it like steam spilling across his skin. “I don’t believe you, Doctor Lecter.”

Hannibal hums at the back of his tongue. “A wise choice, in many cases,” he says, and tastes the sweat glistening under Will’s ear with a careful flick of his tongue. “But not in this one, I’m afraid, Will.”

Will’s jaw flexes under Hannibal’s lips. As Hannibal draws back Will lifts his gaze, raising his lashes so he can fix Hannibal with the dark resistance of his attention cutting from under the shadow of his lashes. “You’re kidding,” he says, his voice flat and hard even as his palms print heat to Hannibal’s shoulders, as his thighs clutch tighter around Hannibal’s hips with the friction of the other’s moving. “After everything you’ve done to me, I’m supposed to believe you worry at all about my well-being?”

Hannibal lets his gaze drift over Will’s face, savoring the details of the other’s expression, the distrust behind his eyes and the color at his mouth and the pleasure flushing his cheeks with honesty no matter how bitter his voice may cut. “I do,” he says, and watches Will’s lashes stutter in acknowledgement of the felt truth of the words. Hannibal leans back in, dipping his head to breathe the pattern of Will’s thudding heartbeat past his lips as he wraps an arm around the other’s waist and draws Will in closer against him so he can take control of their joined balance. Will’s legs tighten around Hannibal’s hips, his arm looped around Hannibal’s neck flexes nearly to the point of pain, and Hannibal draws Will into his lungs in a breath deep enough for the other to hear before he sighs satisfaction to the shadow of Will’s curling hair.

“Everything I have done I have done for you,” Hannibal says, and rocks himself forward to let his body write punctuation for the truth of his words. Will’s fingernails tighten at his back, digging themselves past Hannibal’s skin to draw the heat of blood spilling around them; Hannibal feels the strain of a moan in the other’s chest, even if Will tightens his jaw so the sound of it turns to a hiss instead of the shadowed heat it ought to be. Hannibal doesn’t care, doesn’t begrudge him this attempt at denial; he can hear Will’s breathing coming hot against his cheek, and he can feel Will’s cock aching against his stomach, and he knows how to draw truth free from Will with the knife-edge of irresistible desire. Hannibal sets his palm at the desk behind Will’s hips, steadying his arm so he can be sure of their balance, before he loosens his hold around Will’s back. Will’s arm tightens at the loss, his heel digs in against the back of Hannibal’s thigh where he’s holding himself up, and Hannibal leaves Will to bear his own weight while he touches his fingertips to the side of Will’s ribcage, to skim over the pattern of the other’s desperate breathing and trace the lattice of bone as he moves down to the soft of his belly, the dip of his navel, the taut strain at his abdomen. Will is shaking against him, Hannibal can feel the tension knotting itself into his muscles, but Hannibal takes his time, moving slowly to trail over Will’s body as he works his way downward with deliberate care.

“For us,” Hannibal says, tasting the word rich and dark as chocolate at the back of his tongue, and when he slides his fingers around Will’s cock a sob tears itself free from Will’s throat, dragging his mouth open to give voice to the gasp of heat that courses through him. Hannibal rocks them back against the support of the desk, leaning hard against his arm until his shoulder strains with the force, and when Will’s nails scratch across the curve of his back Hannibal answers him in kind, tightening his grip to a fist before jerking up sharply over Will’s cock in his hold. He feels the pull of his hand in the flex of Will’s body around him, hears it in the gasp of the breath spilling at his hair, tastes it in the salt-sweat heavy at his lips, and Hannibal presses his face to Will’s neck and urges them on towards the culmination now well-started. There is strain in his body, working at the backs of his thighs and clenching at his shoulders and scored into lines of heat over his back in the paths of Will’s grip at him, but Hannibal’s attention is pressing to the spicy-sweet of Will’s skin, and the rhythm of his breathing rising and falling in deep draws in his chest, and the deep-down ache of a closeness too much, too entire, for any mortal form to bear much of.

They can only last so long. Hannibal has his eyes shut, his attention distanced from the physical heat of his body to follow the swelling surge of pleasure like an artist listening to the crescendo of a symphony; but Will is wound too tight to pull free of the sensations of his own body, and Hannibal can feel his control fraying loose with every stroke he takes over the other, with every forward thrust of his hips. Will’s jaw is set like a wall, his breath hissing past his teeth, but the cracks are widening, splitting open to offer gasps of choked-off heat, the clutch of a hand into Hannibal’s hair, the lift of a knee rising to struggle for greater closeness. Hannibal can feel Will arching against him, can mark the crest of the other’s arousal building itself into the curve of his spine, the work of his chest; and still, Will clings to himself, clutching to insistent denial for another breath, another thrust, another stroke. Hannibal can taste the struggle on his skin, can feel the sweat-heat of it slick all across his body as he tries, again, always, to fight the inevitable. He smiles, well-aged appreciation curving his lips on amusement, on pride, on love; and Will’s head goes back, the tension in his neck giving way to slack surrender, and when he moans Hannibal feels the depth of the sound coursing through his chest and quaking in his thighs as surely as it spills from his cock. Hannibal breathes in deep, drawing the radiance of Will’s orgasm past his lips as he pulls it from the other’s body with hand and cock together, until Will is trembling weak with the unravelling of all the tension that holds him together.

Hannibal holds to him for another moment, savoring the struggle in Will’s arm around his shoulders keeping the other upright, listening to the effort in the other’s breathing as he tries to hold to Hannibal with fast-failing strength. Then he uncurls his palm from his grip on Will’s cock, and reaches around him, and when his palm presses security to the other’s back Will gasps a breath of relief and sags into the support. Hannibal lets him dip down fractionally, lifting his head from Will’s neck so he can watch his face instead, where the tells of pleasure are fluttering his lashes and parting the soft of his lips. Will looks spent, his cheeks flushed and mouth damp and eyes dark with unfocused sensation. Hannibal looks at him, pressing the details of Will’s face into his memory, appreciating the anticipation like the rich weight of wine at his nose before it touches his lips, and then he settles himself into his body, and he turns himself to the satisfaction of consumption.

There are details, of course, fragments of attention Hannibal’s mind clutches at in spite of the rising force of pleasure in him, the tidal force of arousal he is allowing himself to be carried upon. Will’s fingers in his hair, clenching to a fist that pulls sharp pain against the back of his scalp. The sound of Will’s breathing, easy to see shifting in the tilted-back line of his neck and rasping in time with the sharp forward motion of Hannibal’s hips. The taste of the air, thick with sweat and dark with the shadow of sex, the rhythm of bodies moving in tandem. And the heat, tight in his balls and solid in his belly and rising up his spine, climbing the length of his body to reach for the back of his skull and shatter itself out over his awareness. Hannibal’s shoulders flex, his body tightening to pin it back, to hold it at bay, to let the satisfaction simmer a little longer; but his breathing is coming raw with desire, and his body is moving of its own accord. His thighs jerk him forward, his fingers dig in sharply at Will’s spine, and Hannibal shouts a wordless note as his orgasm engulfs his mind and memory and self.

He hears the sound of Will’s breathing first, the gasping force of it coming as counterpoint to the strain working reflexively in his own chest. He draws an inhale, blinking himself free of the haze of consummation that eclipsed his attention for a moment, to find himself still leaning over the support of his desk, his arm still bracing Will against him and both of them breathing with panting force. Hannibal’s body is slick with heat; his hair is clinging to the back of his neck and against the top edge of his forehead, and he can feel sweat pressing hot between his hips and Will’s thighs braced around them. For a moment he takes the time to linger in the sensation, to feel the tremor of exhaustion at his legs, the rasp of effort in his throat, the dull throb of spent pleasure at the back of his mind; then he takes an inhale and turns his head to refocus himself on his partner.

Will still has his arm around Hannibal’s neck, still has both legs locked around Hannibal’s hips, as if to hold them together as much as to keep himself upright. The grip of his hand at Hannibal’s back has loosened, though Hannibal can feel the distant ache of salt-sweat at the scratches Will has laid into his skin; there’s the press of an open palm against him now, gentle enough that Hannibal can feel the quiver of sensation still trembling in Will’s outstretched fingers. Will’s eyes are closed, his head tipped back into overt surrender and his breathing working hard in his chest.

Hannibal watches him for a minute, observing the curl of his lashes, the part of his lips, the rhythm of his pulse beating at his neck, before he shifts his hand at Will’s back to pull them a little closer. “Will.” Will’s forehead creases, his mouth tightens on effort, but he does lift his head, responsive to Hannibal’s call even before he’s opened his eyes to offer the shadowed blue of his gaze to the other.

Neither of them say anything. They just stay there, gazes locked as closely as their bodies, reaching out into the shadows of each other’s mind for what insight intuition and understanding and absolute, impossible intimacy can offer. Hannibal lets Will observe him, leaves himself stripped bare for the other’s uncanny perception; and in turn he fits himself into the space behind Will’s eyes, finds his reflection cast back from shadowy pools in Will’s mind as surely as his pleasure is a mirror of Will’s own. They look at each other, silent in their perfect understanding; and then Will’s lashes dip, and Hannibal smiles and leans in to catch unfeigned desire from lips made pliant on honesty.


End file.
